All the Difference
by mysweetone
Summary: Canon/AU. Begins 1912. The life/friendship of Anthony Strallan and his valet, Stewart, from Maud's death to the courtship of Edith and, later, the tragedy of the Great War, and beyond. As Lucius Seneca said: "One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and be understood." Anthony Strallan is Mr. Fellowes' creation; however, Stewart is not.
1. Prologue

_A/N: A backstory for Anthony and his valet, Stewart. Thank you to all of you who expressed such affection and interest in Stewart and this little endeavor! Honestly, I couldn't get this scene out of my head after working on The Present; it could very well be the prologue to that story, too, given that I'm using this as Anthony's motivation to act where Edith's child is concerned. In many ways, it was cathartic just to write it. I hope you like it. Please, as always, thank you for reading and do let me know what you think..._

* * *

_February, 1912_

He'd knocked lightly, walked with soft steps towards her bed. She appeared to still be sleeping, but fitfully. The face, pale in the early sunlight, grimaced as though disturbed by fear or pain and he sought to protect her, wake her from it. "Darling?" Anthony sat gingerly at her bedside.

"When did you get home?" Her voice strained from the effort and she gladly took the glass of water he offered.

"'Twas late, I'm afraid. The meetings lasted much longer; you know how government men can go on." Anthony swept the dark brown hair from her face and smiled at her, took the glass back and set it on the night table. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired…the same, really, but hurting a bit."

"Should I call Dr. Clarkson?"

"Oh no, nothing like that, I'm sure…I think."

Anthony's expression didn't change. The smile remained, a practiced attempt at comfort for her, a distilled version of hope he'd settled on after so many days like the one he knew this would be…fatigued, his wife in pain, yet trying to rest, unable to leave her bed at all for fear of—well, so many fears and so few answers from the previous losses. Every precaution taken by now as they neared the end of the seventh month. Together. They could make it this time, surely.

"Anthony?"

"Hmm? Yes, my love?"

"Thank you."

"What on earth for?"

"Coming home to me."

He tried to quiet her then, quell any mention of the agony of the past—the time he spent away with trips for business or for king and country—but she held up a frail hand.

"No, my dear husband. You've no idea…how much I love you—your patience and how you've been so strong, for me especially." The fragile cracking began first with her familiar smile fading, and then the tears started, and Anthony immediately reached for his handkerchief, wiped them from her cheeks and eyes, still trying to hush her worries and fears.

"It'll be different this time—"

"Why should the two of us having a family—_trying_ so desperately to have one—why should it be so…heartbreaking?" She demanded in a whisper.

Anthony took the handkerchief, tucked it away, and folded both her hands in his. "It will be worth it, won't it? When we hold this little one? See him for the first time—or her." He smiled, willed her to smile with him…

"I love you. I'm trying to be strong, Anthony, I swear!" She lifted her head from the pillow, her near-hysterical whispers imploring him to believe her. "I would've given you—"

"Shhhh. I know, my darling, I know." Anthony frowned at her agitation, her state of mind descending beyond his reach—again. "No one's blaming you; none of this is your fault. I love you; I only want you well and happy. All right?"

"The children we should've had by now—_your _children—" Sobs wracked her body as she tried to sit up. Anthony held her, the sound of her cry enough to sting his own eyes. As he embraced her, she buried her face in the shoulder of his coat as he tried to soothe her.

"_Our _children, darling. Please, shhhh. We mustn't give up hope. This has gone much better than before."

"You deserve so much—"

He pulled away, his arm still supporting her as his hand went to her cheek and he looked into her eyes. "As do you, my darling. And we will have it—together. And then we will give everything we have to our child. I promise. Now, rest. Please, darling."

She refused to let his arm go as he moved to stand, panicked, yet trying to regain her composure. "Will you—will you, please, stay with me?"

"Of course, I will. There's no other place I'd rather be than with…my family." Anthony kissed her palm, held it to his cheek, and then reached to touch the blanket where it covered her belly. "I love you both so very much," he murmured, to the baby inside as much to his wife. He glanced back to her. "I'll retrieve the papers I need from downstairs and be right back, all right? Is there anything else I can get for you? Have Mrs. Brandon bring up something to eat? You know how she loves to dote." The two of them both grinned at that notion, the petite cook lovingly seeing to their every whim in an effort to ensure Lady Strallan and the baby were properly nourished.

"I'm fine right now, thank you. We do have such wonderful people here. You know why, darling?"

Anthony shook his head, aware that his logical explanation would be inadequate compared to hers. "You—well, we—I think it's that we treat them so well, like members of our family."

"They adore you and I can't blame them; you're beautiful and brilliant and funny."

She smiled, sheepish from the compliments, but looked back to him, her eyes gleaming from the moisture of the remaining tears and the sunlight streaming through the brightening room. "Stewart loves you, darling, you're practically a father—" She caught herself and the tears, but she held them off and tried to smile again. "Or at least a much older brother."

Anthony caressed her cheek, his smile and eyes light. "Rest. I shall return in mere moments."

Anthony went to his room, taking a couple of minutes to gather a book and a couple of papers from his night table and then hurried down the corridor. As he descended the stairs to the main foyer on the way to the library to collect additional files for working in her room, he saw Stewart and Grace, his wife's maid there, ready to meet him at the landing, with Stewart holding an envelope of some kind—all three, however, froze when the anguished shriek of Anthony's name erupted from her room.

The gentleman turned and bolted up the stairs, yelled behind him to his valet, "Clarkson—now!"

Grace hurried up the stairs behind Anthony.

Stewart obeyed and was out the door with only his hat and Mrs. Brandon following behind, calling to him, hurried to catch him to give him his coat…

Upstairs, Anthony threw the door open to find Maud in the bed still, but with the covers back and her face ashen.

"Darling?" Anthony moved to take his wife's hand, the hysteria bringing a relentless quivering in her body, and he held her, embraced her gently, trying to calm her—both terrified at the amount of blood. The hemorrhaging…

"It's too soon and it's worse…Anthony…the pain—" Tears streamed down her face as another cry from her echoed in his ears and she gripped his arms so tightly he felt her nails through his sleeves.

"Dr. Clarkson's on his way. Everything will be—" He stopped the inane platitudes from crossing his lips. The minutes became eternal passages of time, the screams—coming at unpredictable intervals and increasingly violent, the merciless moments as he watched life slipping from his grasp, stayed by her side as she begged him. The couple stared at each other, one pleading for the pain to cease and for life and the other for permission to stop and for peace.

Grace replaced the bedding, maneuvered around her, shifted her weight a bit with apologies, and surrounded her with fresh linens and blankets.

Anthony remained by his wife's side with wordless prayers. Somewhere, deep within, Anthony saw it, knew that it wasn't just the baby this time that he would lose…

Stewart beat Dr. Clarkson up the stairs, ushered him in to find Maud's labor already in progress—far too early. Anthony refused to move at first, but Clarkson and Grace insisted they would do everything they could.

Anthony stood in protest, still holding her hand. "No, no—it's never been like this before—she needs me here! Help her for God's sake!"

Clarkson placed a hand on his chest and nodded to Stewart, who appeared torn initially—particularly when another scream and a gasp for air came from Lady Strallan and she clutched her husband's hand tighter. But Stewart reached for his master. When Anthony ripped his arm away, tried to sit again by his wife, his face contorted with fear and panic, Stewart took him by both arms and pulled him up, nearly carrying him from the room and supporting Anthony's body from collapse the entire walk down to the library.

There, Stewart poured Anthony a brandy and the long wait began—the echoes of his wife's agony too much for him to bear as he paced, clenched his jaw with each piercing sound, and paced again. On two different occasions, the screams rang out so sharply Stewart planted himself in Anthony's way at the library door to prevent him from going upstairs. Physically pushing Anthony back, his master glaring at him with a fierceness he'd never seen, Stewart stayed steadfast.

"Let me go to her."

"He's doing his best, Sir—I promise."

The memory of this day, of Anthony's blue eyes red, bleary from the tears, and his voice—the suffering sound of broken whispers—became imprinted…every detail crystallized. For, in reality, Stewart _wanted _to let Anthony go to her; keeping a man from his wife under such circumstances felt wrong, but he knew how dire the situation seemed. She'd always come through before and, yes, it appeared far worse, but surely…

And then it was quiet. For long silent minutes, Anthony stood in front of Stewart as though caught.

Just after one in the afternoon, Dr. Clarkson came down the stairs and when he appeared in the doorway, Stewart and Anthony focused first on his haggard and wary expression and then saw that he held a tiny swaddled bundle. Anthony's heart began to pound, a sudden rush of blood to his head as he stood—surely, he'd been wrong. He took three long strides and before he could touch the infant Dr. Clarkson spoke.

"You need to see her…now…"

Anthony hesitated, not understanding at first, mesmerized by the image of his baby and then trying to make sense of the words.

"Her? What—"

"Go to her—right now."

And he did…in time to see her—asleep? Her shallow breaths evidence of her exhaustion and her body's final seizing of life. He held her hand in both of his as the tears fell—no sounds, just the watery cascade of loss. Grace finished collecting the stained linens that she could and left them alone. Anthony kissed her hand, held it to his lips, and shut his eyes tightly, as his mind tried to find the words, the thoughts, the silent supplications to bring about the miraculous… There were no final words, only the hush of the last breath and her wilted fingers in his.

Anthony made his way back downstairs in shock, said nothing to Clarkson, but only took his child in his arms.

"It's a boy," the doctor offered. "But he's…"

"Philip Ryan…"

Dr. Clarkson and Stewart exchanged worried looks. Anthony walked with his son over to the windows of the Locksley library, the clouds overtaking the sun's rays and heavy drops beginning to dot the panes.

The doctor walked, tentative, and stood beside him. "Sir Anthony, he's not well—"

Anthony looked at Clarkson, a condemned man accepting his tragic sentence, and then walked with his son to the sofa and sat.

"There's nothing to be done; his lungs are…"

Clarkson continued with his medical explanation, but Anthony only stared at his son, the only sound the whisper of short and labored gasps of air, the occasional murmur of Philip's name, the pained declarations of love, the beseeching cries to live…until…almost an hour later…Anthony's only baby to survive outside the womb, slipped from the earth…

Stewart brushed his own tears away, watched as Clarkson tried to coax Anthony to let Philip go. Mrs. Brandon and Grace stood just outside the library, both stricken by the heartache and grief that now engulfed Locksley. The matronly cook could take it no more and she, too, joined Clarkson in helping Anthony let go. Anthony stood even as the two began to take hold of the boy, held him closer in his trembling hands to withstand the tender theft, to fight the relinquishing deemed necessary, and then Stewart was there—holding Anthony back by both arms, hands still clutching for his son, utterly silent until she and Clarkson were out of sight, and then he collapsed, crumbled into his valet's arms wishing Death would remember…and come back for him, too…


	2. Chapter 1

Yorkshire came. Lady Jervas, the Callender-Becketts, the Lowthorpes, the Crawleys, the Kents, the Bristols from London—all of them. They paid their respects, shook hands, offered the appropriate words of comfort, and left him again.

Anthony's sister, Sarah Chetwood, stayed for some time after, the friendship between the siblings as strong as ever. Jacob, Sarah's husband, and their son, Mark, returned to their home the morning following the funeral. Jacob's work and Mark's university studies beckoned and both knew that Anthony would be better off with only his sister present.

Sarah, like Anthony in many ways, stood nearly as tall as he, with fair features and paler blue eyes, but the dark blonde of her hair matched his and, without the age and slight height differences, the two might have been twins. Older, now with the handsome maturity that echoed the graces few managed in aging, Sarah's manner and gestures extolled the virtues of patience with her grieving brother: sitting in silence together in the Locksley library, each with or without a book, the fires constant in the hearth; the two took long, mostly silent walks despite the cold; she urged him to eat, much like a charmingly fierce Italian mother would, anxious about his physical health even as his heart scarred. He'd have none of it, of course. Before their eyes, Anthony began wasting away. He tried. He didn't talk or complain, not to anyone but Sarah, and even then it wasn't his few words, but the emptiness that dwelled: the feigned look of getting on as he retained his daily routine of rising early and showering and shaving…as though there was something to do; the sagging posture at his desk, unseeing focus in his gaze, an outward attempt to prove that nothing was wrong, a pretense of strength to conceal the pain. His older sister knew him too well, and she waited…

Four days after the funeral, the staff discovered what Sarah silently predicted and they all saw the depth of grief when Anthony failed to arrive or ring for Stewart and the morning hour became late.

"Stewart," Sarah said, brushing his sleeve as he headed for the door. "The cemetery. I think that's where he's gone. I'll come with you—"

"No, that's not necessary; the weather's quite poor. I'll check there first and return."

Stewart knew to trust her in this and he grabbed his coat and opened the door to go searching; within moments of turning onto the Locksley chapel path, he spotted him. Anthony stood on the far reaches of the vast estate, hat in hands and head bowed, the fresh dirt mounds in front of him wet from the near-frozen rain still falling. The tendency to want to still be close to them made sense; however, when Stewart hurried across the grounds and reached him, stopped just short of the family cemetery boundary of stone, he saw Anthony's clothes and coat soaked through by the weather and the knees of his trousers caked with mud as though he'd been kneeling at some point; the man was shivering in the cold, his lips moving with no words coming out.

"Sir?" Stewart moved towards him, fearing he'd surely taken ill.

Anthony didn't look up, didn't notice anything until Stewart touched his arm and looked directly into his eyes—and even then, Stewart could see the disorientation, the utter disconnect from reality.

Stewart did not wait for coherence or a more lucid state, but instead firmly took Anthony's arm and gave him no choice—gently leading him back home.

Later, after a warm shower and change of clothes, a cup of hot tea, Anthony apologized profusely to Stewart and his staff, and of course his adoring sister, for his behavior in causing them to worry. He yielded to Sarah's insistence that he rest upstairs. None of them blamed him, though. No one said a negative word about it. Stewart only walked with him up to the bedroom, a hand there to steady him should he need it, and returned minutes later to see about Mrs. Chetwood.

Sarah stood in the library by Anthony's desk, looking much like her brother as she stared into the gloom of the morning clouds.

"Is there anything you need?"

She turned towards the sound of his voice and smiled. "No, thank you, Stewart. Just worried for him is all."

Stewart hesitated.

Sensing his presence still near, she turned and faced him. "What is it?" Sarah asked.

"It's just—you don't seem surprised by the fact that he was out by the cemetery this morning."

Sarah gave the valet a sad smile, a poignant expression shadowed from the past. "It happened when our mother passed, too… I found him there by himself praying at her grave. Only once, but I know how he loves and it only made sense that he might be there again, by his wife and son." The strength she'd possessed in the past days gave way to the tiniest of cracks then as she choked out the final words and turned back towards the window.

Stewart nodded as a silent understanding passed between them.

* * *

Sarah observed him, his eyes made darker by the lamps now dimmed for the evening and the boyish lock of hair fallen across his brow as he sat pensive and quiet. She reached for his hand.

"My darling brother, you're going to be fine."

"I know."

"Even though I know it doesn't seem so now. There is life ahead of you, Anthony. I know it—and you must believe it in order to go on."

"I know." His words were meant to assuage, but his clipped and hollow timbre broke her heart.

"Jacob wrote and needs me home, but I'll stay here if you wish."

"No, no. You should go home."

"Are you certain?"

"You want more of my wretched and miserable company?" He squeezed her hand, a crooked grin on his face. "No, no—you should be home…with your family."

"Are you sure? Won't hurt him at all to have to manage without me for a while—make him all the more grateful, I think, for my contributions." She smiled and Anthony smiled, both seeing the attempt at lighthearted humor, but the pure look of anguish that settled on her brother's face caused instant regret over the words, the meaning of his own loss. "Darling, I'm sorry—you know I wouldn't hurt you—"

"It's all right. It is. It's fine. I just need to…" The ideas, however, the priorities of what needed to be done eluded him.

"You need to purchase something for the farms and become the passionate, modern man I know you to be. Those plans there—" She tilted her head towards his desk. "They won't wait—they can't. Maud was so proud of what you were doing and she would want you to continue doing it. Utterly amazing what you have going. Anthony, Locksley is the talk of Yorkshire and the surrounding areas, in terms of the future and what you're accomplishing in agriculture. You can't stop now; let this time be one of focus for you, to help ease this terrible loss. Do your very best, as you always do, because one never knows what may happen…"

Anthony studied his charming and intelligent sister, smiled, and kissed her hand. "Thank you…for everything, my dearest Sarah… Perhaps my first order is to write to Jacob and let him know how precious you are, that he should treasure every moment with you?"

Sarah smiled, blushed and patted Anthony's hand. "He knows. Jacob treats me like a princess, but yes, a reminder wouldn't hurt. I'm lucky to have married such a wonderful man."

"He's the lucky one, as am I to have you as a sister. But you must go home—tomorrow, I insist. I'll be fine."

"I know you will. You've a wonderful staff here—and I'm only a short train ride away. Promise you'll write, particularly if you need me?"

Anthony nodded, dutiful and appreciative. "Of course."

Sarah, after nearly a month, finally returned home, though she left fearful of her younger brother's vulnerable state as he tried to get on alone. Stewart assured her he would do his best to make certain Anthony was not alone. The promise touched her so deeply she cried and hugged the valet, whose own tears were blinked away in the midst of the embrace.

Within two days of Sarah's departure, however, Anthony began to withdraw again. Stewart and Mrs. Brandon shared their concerns with one another in a whispered strategy session, agreed upon their approach to intervene. Anthony initially refused dinner, so Stewart took the tray to the library. The lone lamp at the desk, the absent stare through the nearest darkened window pane, and the only sound that of the dying fire's crackle.

Stewart defied his station, pulled a chair over, and sat down next to Anthony. Mrs. Brandon kept her distance near the hall entry. "Sir? You have to eat." He reached for Anthony's arm.

"I know…" Anthony offered his valet a weak smile. "A part of me knows I must, but I'm afraid I see no point to it all—getting on with things."

Stewart considered his words, a breath before beginning. "Sir, I mean only to tell you that we need you—Locksley needs you, Sir."

"I've no heir to pass it on to…not that I care as much about that—I want her back. She's my life…The losses before were devastating, but at least…we endured them together, as one."

"I know, Sir, but you can't possibly know what's ahead."

Anthony's lips parted, a frown interrupted. "You can say that because you've no idea what it took for me to gain the courage to court her…how lucky I was that she tolerated me."

Stewart shook his head. "I know better, Sir. I only ask that," he gestured to the plate, "you give yourself a chance to grieve and then honor her memory by living."

"Honor her—yes, of course, you're right. Honor her always. Sarah said as much, too. It seems the two of you are conspiring against me." Anthony hesitated, glanced once more at Stewart before looking to the plate and grasping the knife and fork in front of him. "As far as a life beyond, I'm already old. No, the best I can do is keep up the property and…live out my years."

"Sir, I think you'll find there's quite a bit of life left for you, so don't go resigning yourself just yet…"

Every ounce of energy in the next months Anthony dedicated to the season's preparation, the purchasing of new equipment, the redrawing of contracts with tenants, and the modernization of the Strallan estate as it welcomed the technology of the twentieth century.

On multiple occasions, Anthony declined dinner invitations from Lady Jervas and Lady Statham. Stewart would deliver the posts and Anthony would see the invitations and frown. "They're attempting to force me to socialize—with women, I'd imagine—and I've no desire to…be in that position."

Stewart would nod and remain quiet.

Anthony, feeling the anxiety and needing to rationalize, would add, "I know the ladies, Stewart, and they're very nice, but…it would be a disservice to them given that I'm just not ready."

"Lady Jervas only wishes to help you—"

"Marry. Let's just be direct—she means well and she cares very much, but I'm not ready and I can't just put on that façade right now, that false front of congenial behavior when my life is so dismal. I'll send my regrets again."

"As you wish, Sir."

By the spring of 1913, Lady Jervas, frustrated at the rejections received from Anthony, appeared at the front door of Locksley unannounced.

"Anthony," she said, sipping her tea on the couch in the library. "I was Maud's closest friend. You can't continue to do this, darling."

"Lady Jervas—"

The older woman, imposing in her own right given her stature, cleared her throat, a sign of indignation and aggravation at his use of her title. They'd been friends for more than two decades, since she'd married and become a society figure in the York area, and his distancing with such formality annoyed her.

"Catherine—I can do this. For a while longer, at least."

"She loved you and you loved her, but you shouldn't live the rest of your life alone—you're far too sweet a man not to have someone to spoil, to dote upon. Please—dinner? Just us: you, me, and Alistair? I won't invite anyone—this time. We'll sort of help you just get your feet wet again before introducing you to anyone."

"There's no one. They're already married or spoken for or too young or too far out of my league...and none would be interested in an old fool such as me anyhow."

She smiled, her dark eyes full of mirth. "My dear man, Anthony Strallan…you've absolutely no idea, do you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a seasoned prince, not an old one, and no one—no woman is out of your league. Brilliant, warm, sharp, and funny—"

"To a select few, it seems—"

"Oh dear. I'm not going to waste my breath on inflating your sense of esteem. I will merely say that I fervently hope that you say yes one of these days…"

He did, eventually, say yes, in August of 1913. Worn down by her persistence and his own sister's letters encouraging him, Anthony attended dinner. Catherine gave him warning that others were invited and he politely acknowledged that was quite all right, that he would enjoy visiting with Alistair and the other gentlemen. But when he returned home that evening, Anthony did nothing to hide his disappointment and frustration as he removed his coat.

"Two women, Stewart—two young, pretty ladies and not a small amount of pity thrown my way and, what I construed as false adulation, for they apparently knew all about me or pretended to know—though not from Catherine's lips, it seems. An old fool, I am."

"So, it didn't go well, Sir?"

"No, it most definitely did not go well. I was never good at this part, the idle chatting and attempts to placate or offer nonchalant topics of conversation. I don't want to endure that sort of evening again—_ever_. I'm clearly not ready. It's been nearly eighteen months. Tongue-tied or abrupt or stupid, an utter failure at even the most polite, vague discussion—yes, a failure—that sums up my behavior for the entirety of the evening."

Stewart only nodded, hung the coat, and took Anthony's tie. "Perhaps a bit more time then, Sir."

"Or never."

"Never?"

"I embarrassed Catherine and Alistair, I'm certain; I'll send apologies tomorrow, and I've no wish to put anyone else in that position again. I'm meant to be alone now. I loved my wife and she's gone and…there's no one…I'm perfectly fine like this."

Stewart knew better. "Perhaps a bit more time, Sir…"

Through the winter and the dawning of spring in 1914, Anthony busied himself again with work and London trips on government business. Being away in London or in Austria, too, for a short trip, renewed his love of music and travel, but when he returned home to Locksley, to the quiet still-life that had become his home he was reminded of how much he loved companionship…how much he'd loved being married…

* * *

*Robert and Cora considered their daughter's position, with Robert voicing the concern over the rumor regarding Mary's character being wanton, a certain loss of virtue being described in certain circles of Society.

Cora sat on the bench beneath the sweeping limbs, admired the surrounding greens of the Downton estate. "She ought to be married. When I was her age, I was a mother. Talk to her."

"She never listens to me. If she did, she'd marry Matthew."

Cora ticked through the potential suitors, settling on a neighbor. "What about Anthony Strallan?"

"What about him?"

"Well, Maud's been dead for two years so he must be over it by now. And he has to marry again."

"Why?"

"He's got no children. He needs an heir."

"How alluring you make him sound," Robert huffed.

"Well?"

Robert would have laughed at his wife's utter lack of sense in the matter, her sight on propriety and requirement rather than the traits Mary desired in a partner. "Anthony Strallan is at least my age and as dull as paint. I doubt she'd want to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him."

"She has to marry someone, Robert. And if this is what's being said in London, she has to marry soon."

* * *

"Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart," Anthony said, looking up from the ledger at his desk. "What is it?"

"A post for you, Sir."

Anthony took the envelope, opened it, and, as he read, appeared puzzled.

"Everything all right?"

Anthony frowned. "Yes, I suppose. I'm just a bit surprised—it's from Lord Grantham. A dinner invitation next week to Downton…"

* * *

*The Robert and Cora dialogue is taken directly from the Script Book for Season 1, most of which was used on the show. I've included the scene in its entirety rather than the show's edited version.


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! My apologies for the wait on this one; I hope to have the upcoming chapter up much sooner this time around. I certainly, as always, hope you enjoy this chapter and the soon-to-be budding romance. __As readers know, I have an impetus to flash back and fill in holes where canon left them, so I hope to paint the romance a bit more in this story with some scenes I know-as an audience member-I would've liked to have seen played out on the show. _

* * *

In the spring of 1914, Anthony walked the fields of Locksley observing the surrounding green, the beginnings of flowers, and the budding of the season so full of promise that he couldn't help but feel optimism and then dread.

"It's just a dinner," he whispered. Towards the end of his daily constitutions he found himself, nearly always, at their grave sites. Anthony bowed his head, closed his eyes to the sinking afternoon sun. "I wish…" _No matter_, he scolded. "I'll make the best of it, darling." As he turned away, Anthony glanced once more at Philip Ryan Strallan's stone, felt the prick of moisture at his eyes, and walked slowly away.

Stewart adjusted the white tie. Just enough. Anthony frowned.

The past weeks had become a whirlwind of dinners. Now that he'd opened himself up to the social circles again following the acceptance of Lady Catherine Jervas's invitation, Sir Anthony Strallan found himself pursued—a man sought for his position and his need for an heir. Young and middle-aged, slender and not-so, dark and blonde, and every type of female in-between, and he was their target. Most invitations he declined, knowing quite well the atmosphere he'd be entering: social, aristocratic, well-mannered piranhas at a feeding. Could there be a more dangerous crowd for a heartbroken man still caught up in grief? Here he was weak, wealthy, older, and—to most on the outside—merely in need of an heir. What he wanted most in his class couldn't fathom, at least not at first, due to their class' condition of heir blindness. Anthony needed more. A partner. A companion. A lover. And he wouldn't settle. Sarah understood these things; Sarah knew him well. And he'd said yes to this invitation out of respect for the hierarchy and his lovely sister's insistence that this Downton invitation was different.

"_He has three daughters, dear brother, and he's invited you for a reason, I'm certain." _

The frown turned to a half-smile and Anthony shook his head, touched the tie out of habit.

"To your satisfaction, Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart, it's fine."

Anthony's eyes drifted though, down and further until he forced his chin to lift.

"This is an honor to attend the dinner; I should be pleased by the invitation," Anthony asserted. "Sarah knew about it and insisted I attend."

Stewart didn't respond, only waited, his gaze on Anthony's jacket. Walking behind the gentleman, he looked for any sort of imperfection.

"Contacted her. Some detail about the dinner, she said. Sarah got the impression—as do I—that they wish for me to…be attentive to their eldest daughter, Lady Mary, who is apparently looking to wed quite soon." Anthony frowned more deeply. "I haven't seen any of them in quite some time and Lady Mary is, at least as I recall…"

In the ensuing silence Stewart quirked a brow, the seconds passing as both men paused, Stewart patiently awaiting his master's tactful evaluation of the Crawley debutante. A half-smile began to break out on his face at Anthony's stutter and failed attempt; the baronet too impossibly polite to actually _voice _a negative word about the earl's daughter.

Anthony gulped. "I'm sure it'll be fine—just for this evening."

"I'll ready the car, Sir. We should be going."

"Yes, thank you, Stewart."

A short drive and Anthony found himself greeting Carson at the door, followed immediately by Cora and Robert, and then a rather reserved, near stone-faced Mary. Lady Edith and Lady Sybil paid their requisite respects with polite smiles and, soon enough, after exchanges with the other guests, Anthony found himself between Lady Grantham and Lady Mary at the dinner table.

The conversations. Cora smiling, her voice gentle in his ear as he listened, hyperaware of Mary on his other side. Stunning, with her perfect skin and dark hair and eyes, she was nearly too much for a man to see in full—if she'd ever actually pay him more mind than a simple second-hand notice. Manners called for his attention to her, yet she remained chill, even dour at his attempts to begin conversation. Yet, he tried. In vain. This was matching Catherine's party in its intensity of discomfort.

No topic mattered. No interest piqued from her at all as she stared straight ahead, seemingly for fear her neck might tweak at the effort of glancing in his direction. The entire exercise was proving to be an utter waste of time and energy—a test of sorts for Anthony's infinite patience and perfected manners. Perhaps Cora anticipated these qualities as being of utmost importance in courting her prize daughter, hence her request for Anthony's presence tonight?

Anthony tried again, his confidence waning with each syllable, but managing the practiced façade of poise.

"Hmmm, there's no doubt about it. The next few years in farming are going to be about mechanization. That's the test and we're going to have to meet it." Then, turning to her in a more direct attempt to curry her favor and attentions, he spoke, "Don't you agree, Lady Mary?"

The dark, ever-arched brow replied, "Yes, of course, Sir Anthony. I'm sure I do."

Anthony knew the appeasing tone, but he smiled in return—even as she turned, yet again, away from him. Futility.

And then, before Cora could attempt to warm her daughter's pervasive chill, he heard his name.

"Sir Anthony, it must be so hard to meet the challenge of the future, and yet be fair to your employees."

Anthony didn't see nor care about the breach of dinner etiquette: a melodic line amidst the cacophony of surrounding murmur of guests. "This is the point, precisely. We can't fight progress, but we _must _find ways to soften the blow."

"I should love to see one of the new harvesters, if you would ever let me. We don't have one here," Edith's tone came across as apologetic and embarrassed, her own vision of the future clearly different from that of her family's.

"I should be delighted," he said, the boyish enthusiasm and pride apparent, his smile reflecting hers in the moment, a sheer and tangible thread of connection. _Did she blush? A perfect rush of color…_

The tug of attention from Lady Grantham brought him back to his more immediate circumstance as the pudding was served. Anthony waited for Cora, and then tucked into his pudding, eager for the distraction again of consuming the delicious dessert. Before he could think and preserve his manners, he nearly gagged on the tiny clumps of salt that clung to his tongue.

Anthony snatched up his napkin and coughed. "Good God!"

Cora stared, her mouth agape.

Robert frowned. "What on earth?"

"I do apologise, Lady Grantham. But I had a mouthful of salt." Anthony wiped his mouth, still recovering and reaching for his glass to wash away the ghastly taste.

He heard Cora command all of the other guests to not touch the final dish of the evening, felt his eyes water a bit.

"You must think us very disorganized," Edith offered.

Anthony's neck warmed, the embarrassment of it all setting in. A brief echo of laughter suddenly muffled, but he didn't look to his right, only to the young lady across from him—eager to assure her all was fine and get on with it. "Not at all. These things happen."

As the group rose from the table to disperse a short while later, fruits and cheeses having pleased everyone's palette in place of the pudding, Anthony felt the clutch of a hand at his elbow.

"Lady Edith?" His inflection and breaking voice betraying his surprise at her touch.

"I wanted to apologize, Sir Anthony."

"Whatever for?"

Edith flushed, her eyes widening as she stared up at him. "My dreadful manners during dinner—I've already apologized to Sir Perry Hammond for speaking over and, now, I'm sorry to have—"

"No, not at all," Anthony assured her. He smiled, both of them at ease. "I can appreciate etiquette, Lady Edith; however, those sorts of rules don't concern me when there's a wonderful exchange of ideas and insights. You're enthusiasm was…charming and unexpected, I must say."

"Anthony?" Robert waited by the door, the others moving slower so as to allow the baronet to join them.

"So sorry, Robert. Please excuse me, Lady Edith. I've kept them waiting." Anthony gave a slight bow of his head as he stepped away from her.

"My fault—my apologies again."

The gentlemen disappeared; Anthony followed Robert, still making light of the terrible error by the cook, Mrs. Patmore. Politics and talk and brandy. Anthony participated freely in the conversation, his government position allowing him to inform the others of some of the recent developments on the Continent.

"I'm leaving for Austria soon, if the escalation continues…"

The chiming clock. The rejoining of the ladies. Anthony welcomed the final portion of the evening. Walking behind Robert, carrying on with Lord Sheffield, Anthony entered the parlor and his eyes couldn't help but be drawn immediately to the mesmerizing beauty of Mary, now eager, with those dark eyes fixed in anticipation…on him.

Interested in him? Surely not. She'd avoided him for the entirety of the evening. But now…

"I've been waiting for you. I've found a book on the table over here and I think it's just the thing to catch your interest."

Entranced, Anthony took the book she presented; he focused on the pages, measuring the contents. "You're so right, Lady Mary. How clever you are. This is exactly what we have to be aware of." The font and illustration captured his attention; her perfume and proximity noticed, but his curiosity piqued instead by the information. Then, while he held the book, she disappeared for a long minute.

Anthony waited for her, perusing the pages until she returned. He was keenly aware of the time, of her fickle attentions and downward spiraling mood in the wake of Matthew's departure, waited a few more minutes before bidding all a good night. All of the Crawley women fawned, save Mary, and Anthony promised to visit again soon as they all insisted he should.

Once out in the cooler evening air, Anthony breathed deeply, allowed Stewart to open the door to the car and, as soon as he settled inside, rested his head on the back of the seat.

"A good evening, Sir?"

Anthony's long exhalation answered the smiling valet as the car lurched forward. "So many young women and… Stewart, women perplex me. They always have. One moment to appear interested and engaged, but the next remote and stiff… utterly aloof. No warmth or something deeper than just the generic show of required politeness that has—and will always—bother me."

"I'm sorry it wasn't a more pleasant evening, Sir."

"They never will be. I mean, it wasn't as horrible as Catherine's, but…" Anthony lifted his head and stared into the darkness with his shadow and white tie reflected in the car's glass. "The pudding. My God…"

Regaling Stewart with the evening's events took the few minutes' drive back to Locksley. A dim light greeted them in the entryway; a reminder of Mrs. Brandon's affectionate, maternal presence.

"Lady Edith sounds kind."

The two men walked to the library, nerves too wound from the evening to be tired. Stewart poured the brandies as Anthony sat at his desk, took up a pen, and opened his journal.

"Oh yes, of course, she was the very opposite of Lady Mary in the brief interactions—warm and…" Anthony's voice softened. "Kind. Quite concerned and…interested in the changing times…"

Stewart set Anthony's glass down by where the gentleman now wrote. "She sounds very nice."

Anthony though was deeply engaged in his writing by that point and only affirmed with an absent, "M-hmm." When he'd finished the sentence, he looked up to Stewart now perusing the titles in the library. "You're free to go, Stewart. I know it's quite late; I'll be up for a short while."

"You're certain, Sir? I can wait."

"No, no. It's fine. I'm perfectly capable of seeing myself to bed. Thank you."

"Good night, then, Sir."

"Good night."

Stewart turned to close the door behind him and watched Anthony for another moment: writing, his face lit by the lamp, his features downcast as he directed his attention first to the journal and then, for a long moment, to the photograph. With a gentle touch, Anthony straightened the already-perfect frame, smiled, and his concentration returned to the task at hand, of recounting the dinner, the talk, the prediction of the nothingness that would come from it…

* * *

The telegram the following day was to the point:

_Departure scheduled. London tomorrow morning. Leaving immediately. Extended trip. Austria. _

Anthony read the telegram again. "Stewart?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Pack tonight. I'm leaving in the morning first thing."

"Shall I accompany you, Sir?"

"Yes, plan on an extended stay; there's a stalemate at the moment. No telling how long it shall last."

For more than two weeks Anthony remained in Austria and on the continent. Involved in the most secret of negotiations and more casual government goings-on within the region, Anthony worked feverishly—as did the other ambassadors in his assigned entourage—trying to reason with an unreasonable leader: Kaiser Bill.

The few social occasions embarked upon by the group-dinners and the two concerts-sparked Anthony's longing once more for Maud, for marriage. He tried, beyond reasonable measure on both evenings in the darkened concert hall, to picture Mary at his side at this type of outing: leaning closer to him at the concert to view the program or whisper an opinion or relish other intimacies couples enjoyed-looks, the touch of a gloved hand...all of it to no avail. Impossible, even in the extreme of his most vivid imagination, to see her and feel her beside him actually enjoying herself in his company.

On the final evening, Stewart met Anthony in his chambers, after the formal dinner in the Kaiser's palace. "Everything all right, Sir?"

"No, Stewart. I fear we're sitting on a powder-keg in the form of a leader's ego and imperial nature. Everyone's tied together; a strong, but quite-flawed web. One misstep and England will find herself attached to a war we've tried diligently to prevent, yet have failed to see on the horizon. Utter denial at what's at stake. It's disastrous; the others can't seem to see how we're intricately weaving ourselves into it, how it could be avoided altogether."

"You're the lone dissenter, Sir?"

"No, not really, but the only one willing to speak freely. The rest have convinced themselves—in our perfectly English manner—that no war is to be had or fought, that it won't possibly come to that."

"And you?"

"I fear we're fooling ourselves to think it will stop before it comes to that…and, given the weapon advances, the technical advances in maneuvers and ways of _killing_…." Anthony took a deep breath. "I pray I'm wrong. My God, Stewart, I pray I'm wrong."

Arriving back at Locksley, weary from the long trip, Anthony found a letter from Lady Grantham.

_Dear Sir Anthony,_

_Our sincere apologies for the less than perfect dinner. Lady Mary mentioned you again today. I sincerely hope we can host you again here at Downton. You're welcome any time and I pray you're well and that we see you soon._

Anthony eyed the note somewhat suspiciously—well, not the note, but the fact of Lady Mary paying him any mind whatever.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart?"

"The Rolls Royce contact, Sir—he called this morning. They will deliver it this afternoon."

"Very good. Thank you."

"Were you needing me to post a reply to Downton, Sir? To Lady Grantham's note?"

Anthony glanced back to the note. "No, thank you, Stewart. Perhaps one more attempt, if only to confirm my initial feelings. I doubt Lady Mary's feelings have changed in my absence. We'll see how the Rolls drives and I'll call on the Crawley family. Perhaps Lady Mary will be up for a drive in it? Automobiles are the future, after all…"


End file.
